Wake-Up; Break-Down

Port/PICC removal - it was about 18 inches
long up in my vein into my chest.

Since I woke up in the hospital on November 18th, I was rarely worried, or scared, or angry.  I put my trust in God, and I have had peace that everything will work out for the best one way or another.

I knew my body was damaged, but I completely missed the severity of the damage.  I wondered why I was in the ICU with all the REALLY sick people.  I would see body bags go by the glass walls of my room and think, "Those are the people that belong in ICU, not me, but whatever..."

I believed that once I got out of the hospital, things would quickly go back to normal.  When that didn't happen, I assumed I just needed a little more time, naps, food, and all the antibiotics to end. Every day I felt a little better, and I was walking more and more - with the help of Adam and my brother holding my hand.

On Monday morning, Adam flew back to Puerto Madryn to put our things in storage, take care of our kids and prepare them for returning to the States.  Bob and I spent the morning in the hospital getting my last round of antibiotics, having my port/picc removed, paying bills, and finally getting the 17 staples taken out of my shoulder.

Those 17 staples were the beginning of my wake up call and break down.  I had been on strict orders to keep my arm motionless in a sling, but after the doctor took out the staples he wanted me to move my arm.  I tried and could only move my elbow a few inches, and I couldn't move my shoulder at all.  I was shocked.  The doctor then grabbed my arm and started moving it for me.  He didn't fair much better, and just increased the discomfort.

Last shot of the staples
before they were removed.

I always knew I would need a little physical therapy on my arm; LITTLE being the key word.  I was thinking a month would be sufficient.  I expected that I would quickly be able to move my arm with some tightness and soreness, but close to full range of motion.  I would just need to do some exercises to build up the muscle strength.  Instead I have an angular appendage hanging next to my body that thrives on making life difficult.  I have completely given up trying to shave my arm pits, and getting dressed by myself is comical.



Over the next 24 hours with my brother on our flights to the US,  I reflected, and I finally began to realized and accept the severity of my trauma.  As I snuggled into his shoulder, tears flowed down my cheeks.  I slowly began to understand why everyone wanted me to go back to the States and that my problems were too big for sitting on the beach in Madryn.  Maybe I was in the ICU for a reason.